


Ruinous Ardor

by JonsaInTheNorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7714651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa can't let Jon love her, when he deserves better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruinous Ardor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Winter_is_here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_is_here/gifts).



> Prompt was to base a fic off of the quotation: "We accept the love we think we deserve."

Jon’s confessions comes unbidden, spilling from his lips like wine from a casket one night as they sit before the fire in her solar. “I love you, Sansa. In ways that aren’t wholly proper.”  
Sansa bursts into tears that stain her face with salty patches. She did not deserve his love, as much as she may want it. Jon is good, kind, strong, a true prince even if he is a bastard one. The sobs wrack her body; her shoulders shake with the force of them. Sansa is spoiled and ruined, her back a muddled mess of scars, her maidenhead taken by filthy Ramsay Bolton. There is no worth in a ruined bride.

“I should not have said anything.” Jon pulls her into his arms, but that just makes the tears come hotter and faster. She is weak and useless compared to him, to Arya, to anyone. They can wield blades and lead forces, defeat their enemies and protect themselves. Sansa’s greatest weapon is a needle, her greatest skill a light, useless step on the dance floor.

He tries to console her, tracing light circles across her back, not feeling the goosebumps that spring up wherever he touches. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m so sorry.”

There is no need for apologies from him. She should offer them, for leading his heart astray from where it should belong. It is her fault he will hurt, for trying to be close to him again. There are lovely maidens in their court, with embroidery and voices to match, skills at the harp and the bells, with their voices and in their dancing. Some even ride and a few have trained with swords.

They would be much better matches for the King in the North, beautiful queens besides his thrown who could bring him honor and love. They would be more deserving of his affections than the broken girl he now clutches in his arms.

“Oh, Jon.” Sansa buries her head in his shoulder, holding desperately too him in this moment. But she knows it will end all too soon, will be gone and away. He will hurt at her refusal, but she knows it is for the best because someone broken such as her does not merit the love of such a wonderful exemplar of honor and goodness.

* * *

 

He would practice in the training yard with the honey-blond wildling princess. Their dance is wild as it is structured, as beautiful as it is deadly. There is a camaraderie between them that no one has managed to replicate with Val except the youngest sister of the King in the North, who follows the wildling around and hangs onto every word she says.

Sansa goes to the yard each day, to watch their practice. She applauds them both, but cheers loudest for Jon, the knight who saved her when all else seemed lost.

He is distant from her after their conversation the other night. Her chest aches for him to hold her again, to look at her, to feel his touch, but Sansa knows it is for the best. Jon will move on, perhaps with the wildling, to have the love he is worthy of.

She should not offer him her favor, but she does. It is wrong to offer him hope where there should be none, to offer herself this touch of joy. But she will cling to it if she can, hold onto him in a thousand ways and one even if the last may not be her.

“You toy with me.” His rebuff stabs her, but Sansa pushes on, for ill or hurt she is unsure but for a moment she does not regret trying to find some bit of happiness.

“Never, Jon.”

“You said it could not be, just three nights ago. Yet here you are.” He throws the ribbon at her. “Am I nothing more than some game to you?”

“Jon, I-” She tries, but the words do not come. If she speaks, it will be to say I love you more than I can ever say. You are the reason for my being, my savior through this last and every night. I will follow you, hold you, forever if you let me. And that is why no words may come as he marches off to find some other sparing partner.

She whispers, “I love you.”

But there is no one to hear but the whispering winds and the rustling trees of the godswood.

* * *

“I love you even though I must not, ” Sansa says the words aching in her heart, let them burst forth with the grace of a duckling. It is a jumble of words, a mess of phrases between her hasty breaths. “It’s wrong, you deserve better. You’ve earned better than the likes of me, weak and stupid and foolish.”

There are no tears, not now, not when she must be stronger for him. “I don’t deserve you, Jon. Not someone strong and kind, not your brilliant mind nor your careful calm.”

“I don’t care what you think I deserve, Sansa. And stop with this foolish nonsense.” She sees the anger in Jon’s eyes, and shirks back for fear that he will leave now that he has seen the truth. But he grasps her arm with hellish strength, and pulls her against his hard chest.

“It was you who brought us to Winterfell, who led Brienne to find Arya and Bran, who stitched this family together and held us through the Long Night, despite us needing more love and warmth than any in the world could give.” Jon is insistent, his voice hard and strong. “You may not wield a sword or ride a wolf or see into the future, but you are the one who grounds us when the world is dark and cold, who protects us from the schemers of the South.”

“You are strong,” he says fervently, and from his lips she may begin to believe it.

* * *

Reader, she married him. Beneath the weirwood hearttree of Winterfell, she took his colors and name for her own with no one to say it was not right.

Just as they rebuilt the keep of Winterfell together, so does Jon rebuild her. The self-loathing seeps out and he helps her see the strength that he admires in her, silent and quiet but beautiful and there. They are whole and one, a pair of rulers with iron strength and force of wills to protect their people and eventually their children.

Sansa loves them even when she still cannot love herself. Jon holds her when the doubt sets in and never lets it tear them apart again.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the Brontë quote there (”Reader, I married him.”) I’ve just really been feeling the Jon x Sansa = gothic literature parallels recently. Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


End file.
